the
mother of Cora. She was the daughter of a gentleman of those isles, by a
lady whose misfortune it was, if you will," said the old man, proudly,
"to be descended, remotely, from that unfortunate class who are so
basely enslaved to administer to the wants of a luxurious people. Ay,
sir, that is a curse entailed on Scotland by her unnatural union with a
foreign and trading people. But could I find a man among them who would
dare to reflect on my child, he should feel the weight of a father's
anger! Ha! Major Heyward, you are yourself born at the south, where
these unfortunate beings are considered of a race inferior to your own."

"'Tis most unfortunately true, sir," said Duncan, unable any longer to
prevent his eyes from sinking to the floor in embarrassment.

"And you cast it on my child as a reproach! You scorn to mingle the
blood of the Heywards with one so degraded--lovely and virtuous though
she be?" fiercely demanded the jealous parent.

"Heaven protect me from a prejudice so unworthy of my reason!" returned
Duncan, at the same time conscious of such a feeling, and that as deeply
rooted as if it had been ingrafted in his nature. "The sweetness, the
beauty, the witchery of your younger daughter, Colonel Munro, might
explain my motives, without imputing to me this injustice."

"Ye are right, sir," returned the old man, again changing his tones to
those of gentleness, or rather softness; "the girl is the image of what
her mother was at her years, and before she had become acquainted with
grief. When death deprived me of my wife I returned to Scotland,
enriched by the marriage; and would you think it, Duncan! The suffering
angel had remained in the heartless state of celibacy twenty long years,
and that for the sake of a man who could forget her! She did more, sir;
she over-looked my want of faith, and all difficulties being now
removed, she took me for her husband."

"And became the mother of Alice?" exclaimed Duncan, with an eagerness
that might have proved dangerous at a moment when the thoughts of Munro
were less occupied than at present.

"She did, indeed," said the old man, "and dearly did she pay for the
blessing she bestowed. But she is a saint in heaven, sir; and it ill
becomes one whose foot rests on the grave to mourn a lot so blessed. I
had her but a single year, though; a short term of happiness for one who
had seen her youth fade in hopeless pining."

There was something so commanding in the dis